


Amelia

by ItWasUs (AnonymousObsesser)



Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: That's all I can say, it gets weird
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-09-02 12:52:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8668318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousObsesser/pseuds/ItWasUs
Summary: Amelia is a perfectly sweet, kind, beautiful girl. When she moves to Japan with her mother after a divorce that was a long-time coming, she never thought she'd find these connections, or that she'd find a new one deeper than she'd thought possible.Unfortunately, she has to get through her own demons to reach the angels.Eh, you win some, you lose some, right?[ON HIATUS UNTIL I CAN GET MY LIFE BACK ON TRACK AFTER FUCKING UP SPECTACULARLY--MORE INFO IN CHAPTER SIX NOTES]





	1. Chapter 1

Her bare feet hit the soft carpet with a low  _ thud  _ as she slips out of bed. She sighs tiredly, glancing at the figure still tangled in her blanket. Taking off her plush earmuffs, she observes him, scoffing.

His head is buried under her spare pillow, hiding his doubtlessly-open mouth from “potential spiders” (his words). As if the mansion would have any. Regardless, the only part of him visible is his tan nose—and a sliver of his bare arm as it covers his eyes.

_ Still snoozing,  _ she thinks, rolling her eyes.  _ He's  _ so  _ lucky he doesn't have school until tomorrow. _

The young girl sighs again, padding across the bedroom and setting her small alarm clock and plush earmuffs on a dresser. The top drawer squeaks gently as she pulls out her clothes for the day. Beige button up shirt, green sweater vest, black slacks, brown belt, white socks. She sets a pair of black Converse shoes (the only “normal teenager” object in her closet (they were a prank gift) on her vanity’s table as she passes it to slip into her adjoined bathroom to dress quickly.

Moments later, she emerges fully dressed and sits in the chair facing her mirror. She runs a comb through her waist length dark red hair, gathering it up to twist it into a tight bun. As the bun settles just above the base of her skull, she scrutinizes her face in the mirror.

Her red hair—the color of dark wine—is soft to the touch, smelling like sugary strawberries. Her green eyes are the color of bright spring grass. Her pale skin has no freckles, but a slight olive tone peeks through. Pretty, but plain. No makeup in sight; she only dabs a bit of cream to her skin to keep the blemishes at bay.

“Amelia.”

She turns at the groan, looking at the head poking out from beneath the covers. The boy blinks out at her with a flat expression. She smiles. “Alistor. Good morning.”

He stands from the bed, walking toward her in only shorts. She watches him discard his own earmuffs onto the dresser by hers before she twists back to face the mirror. She smoothes a stray hair back into place, standing.

Arms wrap around Amelia’s waist, and Alistor presses his lips to her throat. His breath ghosts over her skin as he speaks. “What are you doing up so early?” His arms tighten around her hips, pulling her back into his toned chest.

She laughs quietly, spinning in his arms to look into his eyes, which are a light blue color—that of blue, blue sky.

Actually, she has to look  _ up _ into his eyes; he’s a good two or three inches taller than her own five-six.

Her arms wrap around his neck as he automatically leans their foreheads together. “It’s near eight o’clock, Ali. And unlike  _ some  _ people,  _ I  _ have to go to school today.”

Alistor makes a face. “Ew. School.”

Amelia giggles. “You know you love it.”

“Sure I do, Lia,” he grumbles, hugging her tighter. “I just don’t like that we go to separate ones. I don‘t understand—”

“—why Mother Dearest insists on keeping us apart all day?” She smiles sympathetically. “I know.” Shifting forward a bit, she kisses his cheek. “At least we have nights. Plus, we’re getting a good education!”

“Yes, but why couldn’t we do that  _ together _ ?” Alistor groans. He buries his head in her shoulder. “We’re only in high school!” (He ignores her  _ you’re so American _ .) “This is our last year, even! We’ll have plenty of time to study separately in college.”

“I know,” she replies again. She sighs, running her fingers through his chestnut hair. “I wish we could be together always.” (Amelia, in turn, ignores his mutter of  _ don’t be cheesy _ .) “But sooner or later, we’ll have to be separated. We’re different people; we’ll lead different lives. This partial separation will help us move on. It’ll be okay, I promise.” She presses her lips to his temple, patting his arm. “Now let go. I don’t want to be late.”

Alistor groans again, but lets her go—albeit reluctantly.

She sits back down, reaching for her shoes. His hands get there first, and he slips the shoes onto her feet for her, tying the laces into neat bows. When he’s finished, he releases her, standing and kissing her hair.

“Have a good day at school,” Alistor murmurs.

Amelia stands. “You have a good day, too.” She steps past him to the door. “Mother said something about you having a job today?”

“Yes—just another practice meeting with Father.”

“Ah, well,” she says with a smirk. “I suggest you escape before a maid sees you; you know how they squeal.” Opening the door, she turns to him. “I assume he is taking you out to breakfast?”

“As per usual,” he sighs, slipping his t-shirt back on. He follows her out of the bedroom, hooking an arm through hers. “I haven’t a clue why he does it, but it seems to be part of his process. Anyway…See you later?”

“Of course. Tonight?”

“Great,” he says happily. He kisses her cheek before letting her arm go. “Love you.”

“Love you, too. I’ll tell Mother you said goodbye.”

“You do that.” Alistor rolls his eyes, backing down the hall. “See you!”

Amelia smiles and watches him dash through the halls, then walks toward the kitchen.


	2. Chapter 2

In the kitchen sits her mother, Cynthia, dressed in business attire and sipping her morning tea. She looks up when her daughter walks in, pushing her shoulder length fiery red hair out of her blue eyes.

“Ah, hello, Amelia,” she says with a smile. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Mother,” Amelia replies, pouring her own cup of tea. She sits just beside the older woman, looking over at the crossword in front of her. “What will you be doing today?”

“Just a few little things…”

“Ah,” she sighs. “Eight down is  _ espionage _ —eight across is  _ corporate _ . You switched them.” She quietly finishes her tea and puts the cup in the dishwasher. “Have fun with your… _ things _ .”

“Hmm,” Cynthia murmurs as she writes. Once finished, she follows her daughter as she grabs her bag from the closet by the door.

“I’m off to school.”

“Do you have everything?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

Amelia sighs again, taking her hand from the door handle. “Let me check.”  _ Every time _ , she thinks, rolling her eyes.  _ I swear _ . “Pencil bag, check. Wallet, check. Schedule, check. Text and personal tablets, check check. Spare paper, sketchbook, cell phone, iPod—check check check check.” She huffs, closing her bag and tightening the strap on her shoulder. “Yes, Mother. I’m sure.”

“Good.” Cynthia grabs her up in a brief hug. “Off you go.”

Amelia exits the home, climbing into the waiting car.

“Good morning, Miss Amelia. School?”

“Yes, George,” she replies to the driver. “Thank you.”

“Of course, Miss,” George says, driving. “No Mister Alistor today?”

“He had a job today, as his school doesn’t begin until tomorrow.”

“Ah. Well, I hope you have a nice day, Miss Amelia.” He pulls up to the curb outside of the school.

“You, too, George,” Amelia replies as she hops out. “See you this afternoon!”

* * *

School is boring—as first days always are. (Amelia muses to herself that this fact must be true even in the most extraordinary of nations.)

She passes through the day like a ghost, her mind in a haze. She accepts course plans and supply lists from teachers—then promptly ignores everything else they say.

Instead, she draws.

Little things: a vase of roses sitting in a windowsill, or a bucket of water in the greenhouse; the occasional outfit, maybe a teacher or two that catches her eye as they get into inspirational speeches.

She has no friends to reunite with after the short Spring Vacation. And so, she draws.

* * *

As she walks out of the building that afternoon, she’s surprised to find her mother waiting for her with George as they stand by the car.

Even more surprising? The ring of red around Cynthia’s eyes.

“Mother?” Amelia asks uncertainly. Her steps slow almost unconsciously. “What’s wrong?”

Cynthia laughs humorlessly, startling the girl. “Nothing, darling,” she says in reply, stepping forward. Her thin arms wrap around her daughter, holding her close for a moment before releasing her. The moment has passed before Amelia can even react. The older woman settles her hands on the girl’s shoulders. “Let me see your pictures?” She smiles sweetly, but it seems empty.

Amelia pulls the papers from her messenger bag, still eyeing her mother. “Here,” she says slowly—softly.

“Thank you.” She gives a real smile as she flips through the sheets. “Wonderful work, as always. It constantly astounds me that you have such talent. You certainly didn’t get it from me. And I doubt you got it from…your father.” She stiffens for a split second before turning to the car. She slides and arm across Amelia’s shoulders, tugging her along. “Come, dear. We have much to do. Much to discuss.”

* * *

_ Your father and I are getting a divorce. _

These are the words that continue to run through Amelia’s mind later that night. The real kicker, though, were the next words that had come out of her mother’s mouth.

_ Truthfully, it is already finalized. You and I are moving tomorrow. _

She sits on the edge of her bed, dressed in her nightgown, looking around her bedroom. Her closet is bare, her dressers packed away. Her vanity is gone, as well. Anything personal has been packed into the moving van out front; all that remains is a single outfit for in the morning. The mattress will be collected just before they leave, along with the bed frame and her little end tables.

_ Where are we moving? _ she had asked, still dazed.

_ Japan _ .

_ Japan? Why? _ She actually felt a bit of relief—though she hasn’t been in a couple of years, she still feels a connection to the nation. (Probably because her friends live there, but…)

_ I cannot stay here, _ Cynthia had said.  _ Japan is the only other place I can work—you know that.  _ She’d held Amelia’s hand, looking into her clouded green eyes.  _ We’ll be living in Tokyo _ — _ you’ve seen the house; it’s the one we stay in when I go to those boring functions. _

_ The one with the windows? _ Amelia had asked, her eyes going wide. It was reasonable for her to be happy—excited—even as her world crumbled around her. The house was grand, with floor to ceiling windows that any artist would love to paint. She’d loved that house ever since she first saw it—six years old, in a new country for the first time. That was back when they visited often. Oh, she loved that place.

Her mother had chuckled at her expression, smoothing her daughter’s hair.  _ Yes, darling. And I’ve enrolled you in a nearby Academy, where you will finish school. _

A knock on her door startles her from her thoughts.

“Coming!” Standing, she smoothes her nightshirt and approaches the door, unlocking it and opening it to see him.

“Amelia.”

She smiles, sighing happily as she lets the boy in and closes the door behind him. “Alistor.”

“Amelia?”

“Yes?” She walks past him, crawling into bed.

“What…What’s going on here?”

Amelia sighs, patting the bed. “Lie down. I’ll tell you.”

Alistor walks over to her slowly, stripping his shirt off as he slips under the covers. He wraps his arms around her, and she curls into his bare chest, her head tucked under his chin. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

She sighs again. “Mother and Father have divorced. Mother is taking me to Japan to finish school.”

Alistor’s grip on her tightens. “I suspected. I saw him today, you know, and he said she was leaving. He never said anything about you going with her, though.”

“I don’t want to go,” she whispers. Tears choke her. “I’m not ready to leave you. Not again.”

“I know,” he murmurs, his lips on her hair. “I know. I don’t want you to go, either, but…”

“We’ll still talk, right?” Amelia asks quietly after a moment. “Text and call and email?”

“Of course,” Alistor replies. “It’ll be okay, I promise. It’s not so different from last time, is it? And we survived  _ that _ , even with you making a new friend.” He chuckles, and she laughs with him. “You’ll get to see  _ her _ , at least. And maybe you‘ll even see your  _ fiancé _ .” He grins down at her.

She stifles a giggle. “That was a horrible joke—thank goodness Mother and Father took the proposal back after seeing how awkward it was for all of us kids.”

“He’s still our best friend, though—besides each other, of course. And the other one—you’ll see  _ him _ , too.” His voice is bitter on this last fact, but she ignores it.

“Yeah, I know, but…I still don’t want to go.” She snuggles into him. “Love you, Ali,” she says sleepily.

“Love you, too, Lia.”

They sleep. For the first night in a long time, the house is silent.


	3. Chapter 3

Tearful goodbyes are shared the next morning. Apparently, George is to go with Amelia and her mother—something Cynthia had failed to mention to her. (George’s leaving isn’t particularly difficult, as he has no family to keep him.)

Amelia and Cynthia both hug Alistor as George shakes hands with Amelia’s father, Daniel. Then Alistor shakes hands with George while Amelia and Daniel hug.

Daniel takes a moment to straighten his daughter’s sweater as his green eyes lock with her identical ones. He gives her another hug—this one bone crushing—before sending them off.

They maneuver through the streets to the airport, unable to look back for fear of crying.

Cynthia owns her own carrier plane, which is how they plan to ship their many belongings. As for the three of them, first class plane tickets have been bought and paid for.

All of this makes Amelia suspect she and Alistor were the only ones involved who didn’t see this coming.

* * *

Three days later, the jet lag wears off; the depression of being away from Alistor, however, still weighs on Amelia as she begins to unpack her life—one box at a time.

Clothes go first; her new closet is much bigger, the things she kept in the house’s second attic bedroom having been moved down to the first one on the third floor to make room for a real life. Her entire wardrobe, all the clothes she’d brought with her—including her six oak dressers—easily fit in the new closet, filling only half. That’s saying something; she has thousands of outfits, enough to fill every nook and cranny of her old closet and dressers. The clothes range from pajamas to evening gowns to sweaters, blouses to spring dresses to dress pants. Clothes for every occasion, dating to every social event and function. Some of it is from her mother, too; for instance, half of her formal dresses were worn by Cynthia first, when she was rising in society. And all of it fills only half of the new wardrobe, leaving a large gap on one side.

Amelia observes the open space for a moment, thinking, before reaching into her carry-on bag. She pulls out a large garment bag and folds it, setting it on the shelf inside the closet. Beneath that, she hangs three dresses: one long, dark green evening gown; one knee-length, strapless and skin tight, the bottom part ruffled just the slightest bit, made with light lavender fabric and with a soft yellow shawl to cover her bare shoulders; and the last floor-length with a slight princess skirt and golden fabric, soft to the touch and light as feathers. Finally, she sets four pairs of shoes on the floor: her beloved Converse shoes, a pair of ruby red stilettos, a pair of silver ballet flats, and a pair of light pink platform heels.

She steps back, observing her work.

The space seems much fuller now.

Next is the fabrics—curtains, bedclothes—and her small tables. Amelia insists on doing these things herself; workers had already set up both her bed and her vanity for her. She needs to do  _ something _ .

She hangs her curtains first, watching the long, sheer fabric drape down to the floor. The white color of the cloth allows sunlight to bleed through.

Once the curtains are hung, she moves to the bed. Her sheets are blue, her comforter green. She puts two pillows at the head—one with a blue case, the other with a green one, so that, if she lay on her right side with her head on the green case, she’d be looking over the closest edge.

The bed’s colors match her walls.

Years ago, Cynthia let Amelia choose the color scheme of any room she wanted. At the time, this had been the only bedroom without a bed. She’d painted it herself, kicking out the hired painters in a temper tantrum—she and Alistor had been only ten, but, with him backing her up, she’d screamed until her face was red and the house was empty. (Her mother, having left them alone with the painters, came home to find Amelia covered in paint, giggling with Alistor as they both stood on chairs to reach the far corners of the room with the paint rollers.) After the house was empty, Amelia had gotten to work; the north and south walls were painted with blue on top and green on the bottom, while the east and west walls were switched—directly in the middle, all the way around, was an intricate, jagged trim in varying degrees of purple. Amelia had gotten the inspiration when visiting Switzerland earlier that year. The idea was that, whether you looked at it upside-down or right-side-up, you could see the blue sky, rolling green hills, and the jagged mountains in between.

At the foot of her bed, she folds an extra blanket. Alistor gave it to her for Christmas the year before last, when they were both fifteen. It’s fleece—warm and soft—and has a picture of the Eiffel Tower on it, with the flowers below in full bloom and the tower itself lit up against the night sky. Alistor had also spent hours upon  _ hours _ stitching the words “ _ City of Lights, Not Love _ ” into the border.

She positions her end tables around the room. There are seven—two go beside the bed, one each beside the door and vanity, one inside the door to her private bathroom, and one in both of the far corners of the room. It’s a big room (almost two thousand square feet), taking up almost a third of the third floor (including the bathroom and closet), so the tables are fairly spread out. The room seems even bigger and emptier than it should, due to her dressers being hidden in the closet rather than out in the open.

Amelia looks around the room, nodding and moving to the last boxes.

She sits in front of these boxes for an hour.

Then two…then three…

_ I’m sending these with you, _ Daniel had said, patting the boxes.  _ So you can remember the good times. _

_ Don’t you need to remember, too?  _ Amelia had asked.

Daniel had chuckled, shaking his head. He tapped his forehead.  _ I remember just fine, don’t you worry. Besides, _ he’s said as he put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a one-armed hug as he leaned close and whispered in her ear.  _ Don’t tell anyone, but I already made copies. _

Now, Amelia smiles as she open the first box, glancing through her window at the setting sun before reaching in.

The first picture is of her and her father—both dressed in formal attire—smiling professionally at the camera. Cynthia hadn’t been able to attend this particular stock party, so Amelia had filled in as Daniel’s  _ plus one _ .

_ It’s a special occasion,  _ Daniel had said. He’d tossed his phone to a colleague to take the picture, smoothing his tie and offering his arm to his daughter.

Amelia, fifteen at the time, had scoffed, but took the arm anyway; they smiled as the camera flashed. As Daniel looked at the photo, she’d spun on him, nearly tripping in the process. There’s a reason she doesn’t wear stilettos; the red shoes she‘d worn that night (yes, the ones currently taking a spotlight in her closet) were covered with her floor-length, dark green evening gown (also taking a spotlight in her closet, yes), and the two together had done nothing but trip her the entire night. Not to mention the fact that the shoes chafed like Hell incarnate.

_ And what’s the occasion?  _ she’d challenged.

He’d wrapped an arm around her shoulders, as usual.  _ My darling daughter coming out into society, of course! My dearest little girl, wiggling her way into the upper class before she can even drive! You just wait: soon, people will be asking, “Where’s your little Amy?”  _ He’d kissed her temple, handing her a glass of cider from a passing tray and exclaiming,  _ And I won’t be able to say a word!  _ She’d giggled as he kept ranting.  _ I can’t say  _ anything,  _ because you’re technically only supposed to be in your mom’s business. _ He’d  _ tsk _ ed, putting an arm to his forehead in an exaggerated fashion.  _ Oh, how it breaks my heart! You are much more suited for my world than for your mother’s. _

Amelia smiles now, setting the photo aside and pulling out the next.

This one is of her and Alistor. They’re sixteen in the photo; it was taken last summer, when they were all on vacation in Bermuda. The two of them are in swimwear, having just gotten out of the water. She wears a white bikini that shows off her tanned skin and toned muscles, her flat stomach and ample chest. Alistor wears dull orange swimming trunks that bring out the slight red tinge in his hair—they also show off his tanned abs and the nice V of his hips.

Their limbs are slightly red from exposure to the sun, and they’re all tangled up in each other as they snooze—sprawled out on a blue blanket over the sand, her head pillowed on his arm and his nose in her tangle of (salty) red hair.

Cynthia had shaken them awake shortly after snapping the photo.  _ Ali, Lia,  _ she’d whispered.  _ Some people want to talk to you. _

_ What? _ Amelia had groaned. She sat up, blinking, then stretched and rubbed at her eyes. She looked around, and her eyes widened. Reaching over, she’d poked Alistor in his side, right under his ribs, making him jump.

_ I’m up! I’m up!  _ he cried, sitting up. He, too, was surprised to see their blanket surrounded by locals.

One of them—a little girl with coffee-colored skin—had stepped forward, tilting her head at them curiously.  _ You’re pretty,  _ she’d said, plopping down onto their blanket.

A man had scooted closer to the girl. Maybe he was her father, or even her brother—they never found out.  _ How long have you been modeling? _

This question had been the start of hundreds:

_ What are you modeling? _

_ What label are your swimsuits? _

_ Where can I buy that blanket? _

_ Where can I buy that umbrella? _

_ How long have you been a couple? _

So many questions—the only one they could answer was what label they were wearing:  _ Hitachiin. _

Soon, after asking for so many pictures it made Amelia’s head spin, they left, still murmuring their fascination of the “lovely model children”.

Cynthia had cracked up after they were all gone, laughing so hard she almost threw up.

Amelia smiles at this memory, too, before continuing to take out pictures. She scatters hundreds upon hundreds of pictures around the room. Some have frames and can be hung up on nails. Others are loose, fluttering to the ground, so she uses push pins to stick them to the walls. All in all, the photos cover both the wall by her door and the one to the left of the bed—but she’s happy. These are special. They span every possible scene—every function, every vacation, every birthday, every milestone, and everything in between. These pictures are memories of her entire life with her parents and Alistor—with guest appearances from her meager list of friends—memories of everything good in her life, in  _ her _ , and none of the bad.

There’s her first birthday party, her and Alistor sitting side by side in their high-chairs. And there—there’s the first time she ended her school year with perfect scores in all of her classes. Over there, in the corner, that’s when she first met her best (girl) friend’s dad. There she is again, ten years old asleep in a beach hotel’s bed between Alistor and her other best (guy) friend. There she is just two years ago, wearing her gold gown as she walks down the catwalk as the creator watches her in the background (she’s friends with him, now, too). And over there, that’s when she was seven and sick with the flu, eating ice cream with her dad and Alistor as her mother pretends to be angry in the background; but everyone can see the smile creeping onto her face as Amelia kisses ice cream off of Alistor’s nose.

Her favorite picture, though, is one she wasn’t even really there for: Cynthia, barely pregnant, holding hands with Daniel over a crib with two mobiles. It’s a simple shot, taken by Cynthia’s sister, Elizabeth, when she came in to find them that way. She’d snapped the photo before they noticed her there. It’s simple, yes—but it’s beautiful. So much love in that picture. It shines in their eyes as they look at each other across that small space. It shows in the way Daniel is stretching over the crib to touch Cynthia’s stomach with the hand not holding hers.

It’s her favorite photo, yeah—even if she’s not technically there.

Amelia folds up the cardboard boxes to throw away later, then lies down on her bed, curling up with her fleece blanket and burying her nose in Alistor’s old blue pillow.

There’s a knock on her door, and she glances over her shoulder to call for them to come in.

“Hello, darling,” her mother says, closing the door behind her. She walks over, lying on Amelia’s side of the bed and petting her daughter’s hair. Amelia shifts onto her other side to look at her. Cynthia smiles. “How are you?”

“Terrible,” Amelia grumbles, making her mother frown. “Do I start school tomorrow?”

The woman sighs. “Yes. Due to my influence here, you have been placed in Class 3-A. As your old school ran on the same general schedule, you’ll not need to take another entrance exam.” A pause. “They have a uniform—” Amelia groans. “—one for boys and another for girls. However,” Cynthia continues when her daughter groans again, “I’ve asked permission to convert the males’ uniform into a girls’ version. The original dress was bright yellow—it would have looked monstrous on you.”

“Thank you.” Amelia sighs. “I don’t speak Japanese. I know a bit, but not enough.” This is true—she hasn’t been in years, and all of her Japanese friends speak English anyway, so why bother retaining the knowledge? She now realizes her dilemma.

“I know. Most of the staff and students speak English, and you will have English versions of each lesson downloaded onto a tablet. You will also have a separate class to learn more Japanese.”

“Well, at least I won’t be as lost as previously predicted,” Amelia mumbles.

Cynthia sighs again, and Amelia looks over at her. “I know it’s hard. But we  _ will  _ be okay.”

Amelia doesn’t respond; she just turns away and waits as her mother rises and leaves the room.

Then Amelia clutches her phone to her chest, letting the first tears fall as she finally cracks and breaks down.


	4. Chapter 4

Amelia doesn’t see her mother in the morning, and she can’t help but be happy for the quiet. (She’s safe in the knowledge that Cynthia will be back to mothering her _to death_ the next day.) She dresses quickly in the outfit laid out for her: a knee-length, black cotton skirt over a white, long-sleeved, button up shirt; a periwinkle blazer with an emblem sewn into the breast; and black ballet flats over tiny white socks.

Her eyes are still bloodshot and puffy, so she leaves her hair down after combing it. She adds a light blue headband to keep her hair pushed forward.

Amelia grabs her bag, making sure the necessities are all in it, before going out to meet George by the car.

During the ride, Amelia plays with her phone, changing her wallpaper from one picture of her and Alistor to another to another. She finally settles on a photo of the two of them making faces at the camera before setting it aside.

As they pull up to the school, she can’t help but think it’s a bit over the top. Bright pink, with big stone columns—spread out over many thousands of square feet.

“Big campus,” George says, voicing her thoughts. “I’m sure you’ll make a lot of friends.”

“Doubtful,” she replies, stepping out of the car. “Thanks, George. I’ll see you this afternoon.”

“Wait!” he calls suddenly, climbing out as well. He reaches into his pocket and brings out a pretty green tie. “If you’re going to look so formal, you may as well complete it.” He wraps it under the collar of her white shirt, tying a neat knot. “There.”

Amelia smiles. “Alright. Thank you, George.”

“Have a nice day, Miss Amelia.”

She watches him drive away before turning and walking into the school.

* * *

Well, she tries to walk in, anyway.

As soon as she crosses over the gateway, she nearly trips over a kid.

He says something in Japanese. It's too fast for her to catch all of it, but she's pretty sure she hears “my fault” and “are you alright".

“I'm sorry,” Amelia says slowly and quietly. It isn't as fluent as it was years ago, but the words don't feel too awkward so she thinks he'll understand. “I didn’t see you there.”

The boy tilts his head. “You don’t speak Japanese too well, huh?” he asks, slowing down for her benefit. “Would you rather talk in English?”

“I’m afraid not,” she replies, straightening. “It's been a few years. But no, I'm alright. I just can't listen or talk too fast just yet. I'll get the hang of it again in no time, I'm sure.”

“That’s okay!” he says cheerily. “Most everyone here at Ouran speaks English, if you ever need help.”

 _Ouran…Have I heard that somewhere?_ Amelia shakes the thought from her head, smiling a bit at the boy in front of her. “That’s nice.”

She holds a hand out to the boy—she’s sure it’s not their custom, but isn’t sure what else to do. It’s like all of her memories of Japanese customs have left her.

Well, except one. She at least knows _san_ for peers, _kun_ for (boy) friends, _chan_ for (girl) friends, _sama_ or _sensei_ for elders.

“I’m Amelia Abel,” she says, “or Aberu Ameria, I suppose, whichever is preferred here. What’s your name?”

The boy giggles, shaking her hand. “Haninozuka Mitsukuni! You can introduce yourself as Amelia if you like. If they speak English, they’ll use Amelia—only when they speak Japanese will they use Ameria! You must be the new transfer student! You’re in class with my cousin Takashi and me!”

“Am I?” she asks, surprised. He begins leading her into the school. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Mitsukuni-san.”

“You, too, RiRi-chan!” Mitsukuni giggles, swinging a bunny around.

“Did you just call me—”

Suddenly, he stops, turning. Then he starts jumping up and down. “Oh! Takashi!” He takes off, running toward a tall boy down the hall. “Come on, RiRi-chan!” he calls over his shoulder.

She runs after him, catching up just as he reaches the other boy.

“Hi, Takashi!” the small senior says excitedly, jumping at him and crawling up his back to sit on the boy’s shoulders, looking down at Amelia. “This is RiRi-chan! She’s in our class! RiRi-chan, this is my cousin, Morinozuka Takashi.”

Amelia takes a calming breath, looking up at the taller boy. (He really is _taller_ ; while Amelia is ten inches taller than Mitsukuni, Takashi is ten inches taller than her.) She holds a hand out. “Nice to meet you, Takashi-san,” she says. “I’m Aberu Ameria.” She gives a small smile, most of her face still concealed by her hair.

Takashi takes her hand, shaking it lightly. “And you,” he says gruffly—and yet, it’s not unkind.

“Come on, we should get to class!” Mitsukuni says with a giggle.

“Yes,” she replies, retracting her hand. She looks down, playing with her hair. “We should.” Amelia follows the boys to class, keeping her eyes down and her mouth shut. Some people talk to Mitsukuni and Takashi—she shifts uncomfortably when they look at her for long.

As the three of them step into the classroom, more people flock toward the two boys, and the crowd pushes Amelia to the side. She huffs, straightening her blazer and walking over to the class reps.

“Excuse me?” she asks the girl, who looks up with a kind smile. “Could you tell me where I am to sit?”

“You must be the transfer student,” she muses. “The seat behind Haninozuka-san is empty. But because you’re new—having not been here for forever like the rest of us—you’ll have to introduce yourself.” She smiles sweetly. “Everyone is very interested in meeting the new foreigner.”

Amelia sighs. “Very well.” She stands at the front of the room, waiting until she has everyone’s attention before clearing her throat to speak. “Hello,” she announces slowly, trying to remember the language and speak at the same time. “I’m Aberu Ameria. I just moved here—to Japan—with my mother, and…I hope we get along well.” The last part sounds like a question, and she looks to the class representatives for dismissal.

“Where did you move here from, Aberu-san?” the girl asks.

“Scotland,” Amelia replies, this time in English. _Wow, my accent came out thick there_ , she thinks, blushing. “Aberdeen, specifically.” The girl nods.

The second class rep—a boy—steps up next to his classmate. “What does your mother do?”

“Um…” Amelia shifts uncomfortably for a moment. “She runs a shipping company. She doesn’t do field work—she only runs the business side, negotiating and such. The company is one of the major contributors to trade between Great Britain and Japan.”

“I think that’s enough for now,” a woman says as she steps into the room. “Aberu-san, I assume?” Amelia nods. The woman smiles politely, holding out a tablet. “Chairman Suoh asked me to give this to you, as I am your first teacher.”

“Thank you,” Amelia says quietly, taking the tablet.

“It has all of your lessons on it—for the entire year,” the woman says softly, to her alone. “So you do not need to download new ones. You missed a good part of the year and will need to catch up, but refreshing a language can be difficult, so take your time. Listen to the lessons and read the texts as your peers do their own. You’ll be given English versions of assignments and tests if you ask, though you are expected to turn them in along with your peers.” She smiles again. “I’m sure you’ll do well.”

Amelia nods, turning and going to her seat. Mitsukuni gives her a smile as she passes, and she tries to return it. She hears the teacher begin speaking.

Settling into her seat, Amelia plugs in her earphones and pulls out a pen and paper. She quickly loses herself in lessons.


	5. Chapter 5

When the lunch bell rings, Amelia has a decent amount of notes in each subject. She’s at least caught up with what she missed the first few weeks of class, and is even a bit ahead in a class or two.

She takes out her earphones, putting her things in her bag as she stands. There’s a tug on her dress, and she looks down to see Mitsukuni. He smiles up at her. “Do you want to sit with me and Takashi at lunch?” he asks cutely.

Amelia looks up to see Takashi waiting by the door. He nods to her, and her eyes flicker back down to the boy in front of her. _I_ was _going to study outside and skip lunch today, but…_ She sighs. “Alright.”

“Great!” the smaller senior giggles. He grabs her hand, swinging his pink rabbit in the other. “Let’s go, RiRi-chan!” He climbs up Takashi to sit on his shoulders again.

Having barely had time to grab her bag before being dragged across the room by the sprinting boy, Amelia lets out a huff as she straightens her clothes and the strap of her bag. She follows Takashi out the door, walking beside him. The tall boy looks at her from the corner of his eye, saying nothing. She blushes, looking away.

As they walk into the refectory, Amelia starts getting twitchy from all of the stares. “I’ll find a table,” she says quickly.

“Don’t you want to get lunch?” Mitsukuni asks, looking down at her.

“No, no,” she replies. She glances about nervously, patting her bag. “I packed my own.” Technically not a lie—her “lunch” just happens to consist only of a pack of crisps and a vacuum-sealed travel mug of tea.

The boy looks at her innocently for a moment. She swears she sees suspicion in his big brown eyes. (That might just be her guilty conscience, though.) “’Kay! We’ll be over after we get lunch!”

Amelia swallows. “Alright.” She turns, weaving through the tables in the hopes of losing their stares.

Finally, she settles down at a table near the windows, hidden behind a column. She sets her bag down, taking out her tea before extracting a pencil and flipping to a new piece of paper in her sketchbook. She plugs her earphones into her iPod and navigates to her favorite list— _Piano Recital_. As the soothing melody of _Ave Maria_ closes her off to the world, Amelia stares out of the window in front of her.

It’s beautiful. The blue sky and green grass, the cherry blossoms preparing to bloom, the little pond by the rose bushes. A little bird is perched in a tree a ways from the window, and a teenage couple sits on a bench by the fountain.

Amelia sketches a quick outline of the scene in front of her, then goes back over it to fill it out a bit. She’s just going over the drawing a third time—this time with colored pencils—when there’s a tap on her shoulder.

She freezes, then turns slowly. She relaxes only a little when she sees Takashi standing behind the seat next to her. Mitsukuni takes a seat in front of her. As Takashi sits, he looks at her flatly, tapping his ear. She stares back, confused for a moment. Then she starts, blushing and pulling her earphones out as she turns back to the table.

“—great spot, RiRi-chan!” Mitsukuni is saying. He chomps happily on a piece of cake, and Amelia realizes that that’s all that’s on his tray—cake. “We never would have thought to sit here! You can’t even _see_ this place from the lunch line!”

“Yeah,” Amelia says, sighing dejectedly as her shoulders slump. She continues filling in her picture, then looks up. “Um…Mitsukuni-san?” He looks at her curiously, cake crumbs falling from his chin. “Could you, um…Could you maybe lean just a little to the left, please?”

He does so, still looking confused. “What are you doing, RiRi-chan?”

She quickly fills in the color scheme he’d been blocking. “Okay, you’re good. You were just blocking part of my view.” She smiles at him before finishing her picture and turning it to face him. “I was drawing that window behind you.”

Mitsukuni leans over his cake to look at her drawing, then turns to look out the window. As he looks back at the picture, he giggles. “That’s really good, RiRi-chan!”

She blushes, hiding behind her hair again. “Not really.”

“Good,” Takashi says beside her. She glances up at him through a sheet of hair, and he nods. “It’s a good drawing.”

“Sure it is!” Mitsukuni exclaims happily. “You should request to take art!” He pauses, sitting back in his seat. He looks at the table in front of Amelia, tilting his head cutely. “Hey! Didn’t you say you brought lunch today? Where is it?”

“Oh…” she trails. “I don’t eat much—” Not a lie. “—so I already ate it.” Also not a lie—she’d realized halfway to the table that she’d eaten that pack of crisps the day before, when she was depressed. She takes her picture back, signing it before closing her sketchbook and putting it and her iPod in her bag. She points to the travel mug sitting by her arm. “I just have my tea to finish off.” Technically this is only a half lie—she _does_ need to drink her tea.

“Oh.” Mitsukuni looks unconvinced, but goes back to eating his cake.

Amelia glances at Takashi, only to find his eyes already on her. They aren’t narrowed or glaring, but the sheer force of his stare is enough to make her blush and look down.

“Hey,” she says suddenly. “Why did you guys want to sit with me, anyway? I’m not the best company…And I’m sure you would have been welcome at any other table.” She glances between them; Mitsukuni giggles again while Takashi just blinks.

“Well, RiRi-chan, you seemed lonely!” Mitsukuni says, still eating his cake. “We want to be friends! Right, Takashi?”

“Hm.”

“Oh,” Amelia says, startled. “Um… Oh.” She sighs, ducking her head. “I don’t really know how to do that.” She twists the ends of her hair between her fingers.

“Do what?”

“Make new friends,” she replies with a blush. “I haven’t done it in a while—and all of my friendships usually start out with family friendships…” She glances up, then ducks her head lower. “I have a couple of friends, yeah—three, outside of my family and such—but I mostly just hang out with my family, their coworkers, and the staff.” She laughs gently at herself. “All of my friends outside of them live in Japan, but I haven’t even tried to contact them since being here. But even so, I‘ve been friends with them for years, so I haven‘t made new friends in a long time.”

Amelia makes the mistake of looking up, directly into Mitsukuni’s eyes—which are quickly filling up with tears.

“You’ve never had a real friend?!” he wails. “That’s so sad!”

The redheaded girl starts panicking. “I have real friends! They might have started out rocky, but—”

“No one should only have _friends-of-the-family_ friends,” Mitsukuni says resolutely. Takashi nods.

“I—I—”

Suddenly, Mitsukuni cheers up. “You should come to our club! You can make even _more_ friends!”

“That’s okay. I have a lot of work to do…I’m still a bit behind…” she trails off, sipping her tea.

The smaller senior looks at her innocently. “Bring it with you. When you’re done, you can make new friends!”

Amelia glances around as if looking for a way out. Finding none, her shoulders slump. “I’m not good at talking to people,” she says. It sounds like a question, and even she can tell it’s a flimsy excuse.

(It’s a straight up lie, first of all; she’s _Scottish,_ for goodness’ sake—an off-branch of the gentlemanly _English_ —not to mention her parents’ careers. Of course she’s good at talking to people.)

“That’s okay, RiRi-chan! You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. You can sit with us and eat cake and have some coffee…” He pauses, glancing at her mug, and smiles. “Or tea.”

She drums her fingers against the table. _I do love tea…Plus…_ “You aren’t going to let it go, are you?”

Both boys shake their head. “Mm-mm!” Mitsukuni hums, snickering.

Amelia sighs, and it turns into a groan as she looks down at the table. “Bleh… Fine,” she grumbles. “I’ll go.”

Mitsukuni cheers; Takashi hums in satisfaction.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really all I've got for now.
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> Let me know what you think if this story...

Her last class is a free block. She takes the time to go over her notes, then begins refreshing her memory on Japanese.

It's been surprisingly easy, slipping back into the language after so long. There hasn't hardly been any issues understanding anyone, though there were a few times she had to ask Mitsukuni to slow down a little.

The one thing she's had difficult getting reacquainted with is the honorifics. And that's probably only because of her new friend. She asks the class reps to help her, and they explain.

“You can't take Hani-san as any indication of proper Japanese custom,” the girl says. Her name is Honda Mari (which was to say her surname is Honda, just as Mitsukuni’s is Haninozuka and Takashi’s is Morinozuka). “He calls everyone by _-chan_ , even his bunny.”

“That's not unusual,” her partner defends. “Though it’s true that most people do not call those they just met by _-chan_ , it isn't unusual for small children to call their animals by it.”

“He's a senior, though.” Amelia is confused. “Isn't he?”

“I'm sure you've noticed how childlike he is.” Mari shakes her head fondly. “Regardless, allow me to explain the true value to honorifics. _San_ is general. Most of your peers will call you Aberu-san, perhaps a few will come to call you Ameria-san, if you talk regularly. Most of the class calls me Honda-san, though some go so far as to call me Honda-senpai. _Senpai_ is for people in school who are older or more advanced than you. Many students, even those in our own class, call Hani-san and Mori-san by _senpai_ , as they are very high on the social structure as well as being quite smart. _Senpai_ is different from _sensei_ , which is used for teachers, administrators, politicians, and anyone else in a position of authority.”

“So I should call the cousins Mori-senpai or Mori-san and Hani-senpai or Hani-san?”

The two representatives share a look.

The boy raises a brow at Amelia. “What have you been calling them today, Aberu-san?”

She shrugs helplessly. “Mitsukuni-san and Takashi-san.”

“And they weren't offended?”

“No, I don't think so. Would they have said? Would they have corrected me?”

“It's likely,” Mari responds. “If they haven't, they probably don't mind.”

“Mitsukuni-san calls me RiRi-chan already, and he didn't say anything about what I've said. Takashi-san hasn't said much of anything, but he's still been pleasant.”

“It probably is fine, then,” Mari assures her. She giggles. “Oh, but if you get to truly be friends with them, you might eventually—”

“—use a nickname,” Amelia finishes. “Yes, I know that part. I have a couple of friends in Japan, and I've known them for many years. One of them I've known over a decade, and I've called him Yaya-chan since we were seven.”

The boy snorts in surprise. “And this boy lets you? Are you engaged?”

Amelia shrugs. “Not anymore. But it doesn't matter. I call him that because he's my oldest friend, and because he loves it even though he claims to hate it. No one else is allowed to. Ever. I'm fairly certain he would murder anyone who tried. He can be quite terrifying, I suppose, though his scoldings and his glares lost their effect on my long ago. Besides, even if he didn't hate it when others call him by the nickname, I would. It's my nickname for him; no one else can use it.”

Mari hums in amusement. “I wonder if we know this boy. You seem very defensive of him, though it also seems you are as close as brother and sister.”

“Do you think he goes here?”

“Perhaps,” Amelia replies easily. “His family is quite wealthy. They own a hospital chain, as well as a line of medical supplies.” She laughs. “We met at his father's hospital, in fact. Oh, what a coincidence it would be if we ended up in the same high school.”

The two representatives share another look.

“Ameria-san, what is his family name?”

“Family? Oh, his surname.” She giggles a bit. “It's Ootori.”

As if a bomb went off, the room goes silent.

Vaguely, Amelia realizes that most of the class had been eavesdropping on her conversion—perhaps because she’s new and therefore interesting? She’s not sure. But she is now aware that they heard her say her friend's name, which could get awkward if they actually know him.

“Ootori...Kyoya?” Mari asked slowly.

“You know him?” Amelia asked quietly.

“He goes here,” the other rep affirms. “He's...an interesting character. Not someone I would have thought you'd be friends with.”

“Because he's a Shadow King?” Amelia snorts delicately. “You can't honestly think he wasn't helped when creating his visage. I taught him everything he knows. Of course, I'm sure he would certainly carry through with any threats he made. Yaya-chan does not make idle threats, nor is he stupid. We are much alike in that regard.” She smiles sweetly yet dangerously.

“Ah,” he says with a gulp. “That actually makes sense. We would never assume that...Kyoya-kun was anything but honest. And manipulative.”

Amelia’s smile becomes bright and childlike as she glances over her shoulder. “Wonderful. I'm sure Kyoya will appreciate it. He's very intent on success, you know.”

“You call Ootori-san...Yaya-chan?” one girl squeaks. “Isn't that dangerous?”

“Only for people who aren't me,” Amelia giggles.

Glancing over the crowd, she notices Mitsukuni and Takashi watching her. Takashi is as blank as ever, though his eyes seem a bit wide. Mitsukuni is smiling brightly at her, bouncing his bunny. She waves, then turns to the reps.

“Any advice on using _-kun_?” she asks. “It's for males that are your peers or beneath you, right?”

Mari snaps out of it first, speaking as the rest of the class goes back to their own conversations.

“Yes, and your teachers may call you that. The other one is sama. It’s used when addressing or referring to people much higher in rank than yourself, or even someone you greatly admire. Business owners, cashiers, and the like often refer to and address their customers with sama, as well. I don't think you'll be using it, but you may as well know it.” She shrugs. “Then there's _-chan_ , which you seem to understand already. It's mostly used for girls, but can obviously be used for males as well, especially those younger than you or to whom you feel a close connection to.”

“Alright.” The bell rings, and she stands. “Thank you for the clarification.”

“Of course.”

As she makes her way to the door, something tugs on her jacket. Looking down, she sees Mitsukuni looking up at her with wide eyes.

“Let's go to Host Club, RiRi-chan!” he squeals.

“Okay, Mitsukuni-san,” she agrees. In the corner of her eye, she sees Takashi join them. “Oh, most of the student call you both Hani-san and Mori-san. Do you guys mind that I—”

“It's okay, RiRi-chan!” the smaller senior answers happily. His cousin nods. “But you can call us what they do if you want. Or you give us nicknames! You've already got one that I have you, so you can give us some! Right, Takashi?”

The tall boy is quiet for a moment before nodding slowly. “Hm.”

Amelia laughs, a bit nervous, as they turn down the hall. “Oh, okay. I'll think about it. I mean, I have silly nicknames for the three Japanese friends I already have, and you two are my friends already, I think, so it seems alright. As long as you're sure it's not offensive.”

“Nope, totally okay!”

“Hm.”

“Alright. I'll...come up with something.”

“Ooh!” Mitsukuni exclaims suddenly. “We're here!”

They stop in front of a door labeled _Music Room Three_ , and Mitsukuni grabs the handle to turn it. Before opening the door, he looks up at her with a cutesy grin.

“Kyo-chan will be so happy to see you!”

“Wait, wha—"

“ _Welcome_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. So...this is obviously not an update, it's really just me changing the notes to let people know what's going down with me. This same note is gonna be posted in the notes of every one of my WIPs, so if you're reading multiples, you just have to read on of them--it's exactly the same note.
> 
> So, I'm a fucking retard. Like, maybe the dumbest person on the planet. What's that saying? "The definition of insanity/ignorance is repeating the same actions and expecting a different outcome"? Basically, yeah. Either I'm stupid or insane, because that's what I keep doing.
> 
> Okay, here's the gist--I. Don't. Do. Technology. I don't. And technology doesn't really seem to want to cooperate with me, ever, either.
> 
> Basically, I took everything off of my phone--pictures, videos, documents, music, everything that wasn't an app pretty much--and put it on my computer. Not a big deal, I've done this several times when I'm working on renaming or organizing or whatever.
> 
> Except.
> 
> My mom got a NEW computer. That means we have three now (four if you count the desktop that nobody uses and that doesn't even work really). She says we're getting rid of the oldest laptop--which is the one I always use--because it sucks and they don't make updates for it anymore etcetera etcetera.
> 
> So my dumb ass is like, welp, gotta get my shit together, and I took everything I had on that computer--yes, everything, again--and put it on a SanDisk FlashDrive.
> 
> And NOW THE DAMN THING WON'T FUCKING OPEN. Everything is gone. Gone. Gone. Gone.
> 
> Docs. Pics. 20,000 songs. Videos. Everything. My whole life--down the drain. I basically have to start over and I don't even know half the things I lost. I swear to every fucking god I can think of, if I have to answer for my screaming and crying one more time...
> 
> Anyway, yes, I'm a dumbass. I'm a crazy bitch. And I'm so, so, so, so, SO sorry for this shit. I know ya'll want to read this, but I don't have any of it anymore. It's gone. I have to start over. Honestly, half of my stories might not come back from this. I'll let you know. IDK what you wanna do, subscribe or bookmark or whatever you need to do to get updates, but it's gonna be a couple of months. If this had happened at the beginning of summer, maybe it would take less time. But I'm starting my first year of college, and updates were already gonna be slower even than my usual turtle-ness, so...
> 
> Anyway, I'm really, really, really sorry. Please don't hate me. I won't day it's not my fault, because it is, but I AM sorry that I'm disappointing everyone. Again.
> 
> Okay. Talk to y'all soon. I've got work to do.


End file.
